The Weight Of Us
by luvin-benadam
Summary: It's been weeks since Mary left with Bash, leaving Francis heartbroken without her. But Francis soon begins to suspect that Mary hasn't left by choice and goes after her for answers, only to discover a shocking secret neither of them were prepared for.
1. Chapter 1

He could hear her words echoing over and over within his mind, a soft reminder of the loss of her. A slow, daunting torture of hollow promises, whispered in the bed of lovers. Empty ambitions of a life they were deprived of. Desolate promises cast aside with her desertion.

_ "I want you to know, whatever happens, I love you." _

An enigma of a warning hidden in the safety of a confession, tucked in between the lines, a foreshadow of what was to come. He ached with the memories, spinning him sideways, desperate to forget, terrified to let go. The cool midnight air seared his lungs, a physical pain that distracted him from the gaping emotional one she had left in him. Heart breaking, eyes watering, the only thing left to do was sit.

The lakeside was still. Quiet in the milky moonlight that reached long fingers between the braches above, stretching it's faint light towards the shadow he sat in. But it didn't quite reach. So instead he sat in darkness, absorbing the emptiness of this place without her; this place he hadn't been to since that evening he had said goodbye.

_ Soft lips pressed, desperate in desire, careful in nature, against one another. A quite moment stolen between lovers soon to be torn apart. _

Francis had thought that that pain had been the worst, the idea of losing her to another man. To another King. But he had been wrong. The wound of watching her leave with his brother had hurt so much more.

The moon was fading, it's vast being sinking beneath the horizon of the lake, hiding away until it's hours were up and it's turn came again. He rose to his feet, body aching and stiff with immobility. He had been there all night, unable to leave the spot where her fingers had touched the grass, her body had laid upon the ground. Drawn to his moments under the trees with her.

Light was beginning it's ascent across the sky, stretching long arms in the opposite corner of the world, reaching it's depths to light the darkest corners of the earth. Francis wanted none of it. He turned from the spot, from the memory of her, and walked slowly back to the castle, back to another room where everything was laced with her essence.

_ "Because I love you." _

How foolish to believe that it was enough. That his love for her could endure all the inevitable obstacles fate had waiting for them. How naïve to believe that she wanted the same. Francis wanted to convince himself that Mary didn't love him, that she left him for Bash. He thought the pain of it would be easier to bare. But it was nagging at him, the indecision on her face, the haunting promise of her love, the non-existent goodbye. It was wrong, all wrong.

Francis liked to believe that, in their time together, he had come to know Mary. Know her tells, the way her body moved, the dimple that tucked itself into each cheek, hidden under the curve of a cheekbone. He knew her as he knew himself, two halves of one whole, separated, joined, then torn apart again. He could see it in the way her dark eyes met his light, a steely resolution in her decision to leave, mounted on a horse beside his brother. But it was there, under the air of confidence of choice that Francis could see it: the heartbreak, the indecision, the belief that what she was doing was for someone's betterment. Francis wasn't sure of whose.

Suspicion gripped him. The pull of his love for Mary wrapped a cocoon of denial around him. The thin hope that her hand was forced, that she hadn't left of her own volition.

_ "If anything happens to Mary, anything, I will suspect you."_

His heart stuttered. Francis didn't want to believe that his mother was capable of driving away the woman he loved, the woman he was promised to marry, but he knew in his heart that not only was she capable, but that she had proved that capability time and time again. Determination seized him. He would be damned if he let her get away with taking Mary from his life.

He stormed her rooms with a vigour that surprised the night guards, still half asleep from their dull and quiet shift, walked in unannounced and stood, breathless and demanding answers.

"What did you do?"

A mockery of confusion knit itself between her eyebrows, body folded in upon itself in a chair beside the fire.

"Francis? I don't know what you're talking about."

He knew her tells, too. The thin fold of lip she tucked between her teeth and bit down upon, the physical manifestation of the lie from her lips.

"I know you did it. I know you drove her away. But with what? What did you have over her Mother?"

She almost would have preferred if he yelled. Quiet and hushed, she could hear the menace laced into every syllable he spoke.

"I did no such thing. Mary left because she wanted to, Francis."

He shook his head, denial wrapping him in it's warm embrace. "She loves me."

The sorrow in her sons voice almost broke her heart. But the queen reasoned with herself that the heartbreak she caused him now would only spare his life in the end.

"Mary left you, Francis. It's been weeks. It is time you start to move on. Olivia…"

"No!"

The volume of his assuredness took a gasp of air from her lungs.

"No." A whisper just as deadly. "I'm not moving on. I'm going to find her. And I am going to get answers. And if I find out that you had anything, anything to do with this, than you have lost me for good."

He turned away from her, the sight of her sickening, and didn't stop when she called desperately after him. Francis didn't care what anyone told him. He knew that Mary had not left because she wanted to, had not left because she didn't love him. Denial, warm and safe, wrapped him in the belief that their love was real, was strong, and Francis vowed that, come hell or high water, he would discover the answers he needed.


	2. Chapter 2

It was gravity in it's simplest form. A pull so strong that nature itself could not stop it. Defying sanity, defying logic, gravity that dragged the oceans toward the moon, released them to the shores from which they came, then were solicited back again. Mary was the moon and Francis was the oceans, pulled without will, without thinking, time and time again towards each other, drifted in waves apart and imminently drawn back together. Gravity that drew them towards one another, that drew Francis from the warmth and safety of his castle, of his home, and out into the world to find her. The oceans being called back to the moon.

A hush, heavy and pressing, hung against the leaves, strewn carelessly across the ground by the tress which bore them. Left to the wind without mercy. Trampled and wayward, left to float among the dying Autumn air which whipped them so far from home. The forest was cool, the King's Road shaded by a canopy of leaves not yet abandoned by their fathers. The horse's hooves were muted as they tapped among the first signs of abandoning fall, crisp leaves so brown they faded back into the earth beneath them.

He had no destination, no plan. Just the pull in his heart that drew him towards her. It had been nearly a whole day of riding and his thighs ached from gripping the horse beneath him, back screamed for reprieve. Determination drove him forward mercilessly until his body cried for relief and at last he sought shelter in a small farming village, tucked at the feet of a powerful mountain towering proud above them.

Morning dawned with a curtain of rain, thick and sodden, pouring from the heavens. Sanity begged Francis to stay behind in the comfort of the inn until the weather cleared. Gravity pulled him from the home and onto the back to his horse, out into the rain to find her.

Time became inconsequential. No meaning, no value. He measured it's passing not by the rise and fall of the sun, but by the hours he was separated from her.

The castles all looked the same. Lonely, abandoned, lifeless. Francis sought refuge in the ones he knew of, slowly making his way to the south of France, no true destination in mind. It became a blur of riding, of rain, of endless agonizing hours spent away from her, hours that she spend with his brother instead. The thought drove him forward.

He wasn't sure how long he had been gone when he finally arrived in Bordeaux, seeking refuge in a summer castle the King had not returned to in many years. The staff accepted him graciously, remembering his time with them as a child, and quickly made him comfortable.

But Francis was never comfortable, not without Mary by his side.

"Have you heard anything?" he asked the servant who brought him a tray of food, just as he had asked all the servants before her. "Mary, Queen of Scotland. Have you heard any rumours of her being in the area?" His waited for the 'no' every other servant had given him.

"Aye," replied the servant, bending low and pouring tea into the china cup. "I have heard a whisper or two. No knowing if they're true or not."

Hope swelled inside him like kindling to a fire. "Where? What have you heard?"

"I know a lad who takes care of Chateau de Montaigne while the King is away. 'E came by couple 'o months ago to pick some stuff up for some unexpected guests."

"Guests?" The word pulled the hope from his body and out his mouth. "Who were the guests?"

"There's a rumour that it was your Queen, but 'e wouldn't say for certain. Protecting privacy an' whatnot."

"Chateau de Montaigne? Where is it?"

"'Bout a days ride south 'o here."

Francis stood from his seat, hope pulsing through his veins like fire.

"Prepare my horse, would you?"

Confusion knit itself like a knot across the servants face. "But it's nightfall 'ma lord. Wouldn't you rather wait for the sun?"

Francis faltered. He had forgotten time and it's passage, it's direct effect on events. Had forgotten that she was not the centre of everyone's universe.

Conflict turned within him. Gravity wanted to pull him to his moon but fear held him in it's place. He wasn't sure if he was quite ready to see her yet, to see exactly why she had left. Without her Francis could live in sweet denial, with her reality could shatter it.

While his heart had been deciding, his head had already nodded ascent.

"I'll ready the bed for you."

Francis sat back down in the chair, staring absently at the food in front of him, hoping to quell the ache that she alone could satisfy.

The ache had only grown over time, stretching from a small pain in her heart until it consumed her, spreading outwards and across her body until every movement was accompanied by a stab of pain. Grief, thick and leaded, settled into her bones. The weak sun could not warm the pain of her broken heart, though it didn't stop her from trying.

She sat at the base of a thick tree, the only solidity in her life, head tilted back as the feeble rays of sun breaking through the mask of clouds gently caressed her face. It was almost warm, like a breath against flesh, like Francis' hands, soft and careful and reassuring. She tried to let it comfort her, the kiss of sun that played across the features that had hollowed out in their time apart. But the warmth only reminded her of what she was deprived of, of what Francis' had given her and now couldn't.

The swell of nausea rose so suddenly from within her that she only had time to lean to the side and retch into the grass next to her. Mary couldn't help the tears that accompanied it, sliding down the plains of her face and falling to the grass below. She wrapped thin arms around herself, searching for a moment of comfort that would never come.

"You're ill again." He didn't phrase it as a question because there was no doubt in his mind.

"I'm fine." Her customary response.

"You're not."

Her eyes flashed a heat of anger against his face but he didn't flinch.

"Have you changed your mind yet? You can always go back."

She dabbed the corners of her lips with the tips of her fingers and pushed herself standing. Bash moved to help her but she brushed him off, hating the weakness that drew him to her. "No. There is no going back."

She turned from him and walked away, desperate to hide the tears that coated her eyes. It was desperation that brought her here, away from Francis. Selfishness would not allow her to go back and risk his life, no matter how strong the pull of gravity within her was.


	3. Chapter 3

The power of it was all consuming; hope. Surging like kindling to fire through dry veins, burning with a light so bright it lit the darkest corners of the soul, diminishing the darkness with a simple swell. Rational parts ached to remember the pain, the heartache, the betrayal. Hope lit the rationale on fire and burned it to ashes. Gravity had not diminished with the retreat of the moon, it had simply taken refuge in the dark corners, slowly being brought back to light with hope's fires slow burn.

He awoke gently, eyes slowly flickering to breathe in the new world, lit with a light stronger than the sun. The knowledge of her proximity was the best awakening he had had since the morning he had awoken with her in his arms. Francis hoped he would have another morning like that shortly. Hope spurned through him with an intensity so strong it pushed him from the bed, despite the chill of the cool morning air, damp against the skin of his face.

Silence filled him. A heavy stillness that quickened the thrum of his heart against his ribs, that quieted the racing of his anxious mind. Francis couldn't put his finger on his reluctance but he was filled with a sudden dread at what he would find when Mary was finally back within his grasp. He wanted to be angry with Bash, wanted to hate him for his action, for taking Mary from him, but the overwhelming devastation at being left behind had consumed his anger like water to flame.

He was in no mood for eating, for formalities, for sitting aimlessly when she was so close for the first time in so long. So with a quick thank you and some directions from the servants, Francis set off to find her.

FMFMFM

The morning was still, heavy with the secret that had burdened itself with her. Silence filled the halls. Mary sat at the foot of her tree, arms crossed protectively over the secret growing within in. Grief stung a bitter sting at the thought. She ached for Francis, ached to tell him of their child growing within her, a testament to their love. But terror seized her. She knew that if Francis knew of the child it would only solidify his resolve to marry her, to be with her, and therefore seal his fate. Mary would be damned if she was the cause of Francis' death.

A soft breeze blew gently across her face, carrying with it the scent of something familiar, something Mary had no trouble placing. It was the scent of Francis, carried to her on the bows of the wind. Tears stung her closed eyes. So strong was her longing for Francis that her mind had conjured his smell.

"Mary."

She didn't dare open her eyes for fear of ruining the illusion her mind had conjured. Francis' voice calling to her.

"Mary, open your eyes."

Closer this time, so close she felt as though she could reach out and touch him as if he really was there.

Eyes still closed, she dared to breath his name for the first time in what felt like forever. "Francis."

A hand, soft and familiar and comforting, resting of the curve of her cheek. Mary was confused. There was no way her mind had created an illusion as real as this. She opened her eyes, breathing in the reality before her.

A smile graced her face, dimples tucked into each cheek. "Francis."

There was no denying the reality before her now. And the consequences that came with it.


End file.
